


Tales from the Empire

by adrift_me



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Drabble, Inktober, Inktober 2018, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-24 00:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16169657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: Every citizen of the Empire has their story to tell. Be it a whisper they heard from a man in a horrible mask or a shadow they saw, which resembled the Empress. Though they never shine in the spotlight of major events, they are always present, always watching and always witness great people do great things.A collection of drabbles about Dishonored NPCs, based on Inktober prompts.





	1. Day 2. Tranquil

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! It seems to be a tradition for me now to start October challenges on the month's second day! This year I decided to write a collection of drabbles, each 500 words precisely, which has been on my mind for a while and that some of you have been prompting me to write. In every single prompt I will be writing about an NPC from DH1, DH2 and DOTO. In each chapter I will also specify who this story refers to.
> 
> All the prompts are from the official Inktober list.
> 
> Should be fun :)
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> This story refers to a lady on the docks in Karnaca, in the second mission as you arrive. You can see her taking a silvergraph of the Addermire Institute.

She sits on the edge of a small ledge that unfolds further into the shore of the ocean, Karnaca standing magnificently behind. In her hands is a silvergraph she took but a month ago, having spent a whole day in the scorching late afternoon sun, adjusting and aiming her silvergraph equipment at the Addermire Institute. By now it is open and functioning again, a carriage just running past and towards the small island.

She looks ahead and then closes her eyes. Even like that she can see the outline of the building, her observant eye never to be blinded by darkness. It is something her father taught her as she sat by his feet, watching him paint. The way he described places, even a most boring old building could turn into a magical tower with mysteries and its own story.

“Seek the magnificent in the simple. No place, however dull, is without a myth,” he used to say. “It is an artist’s privilege to uncover it. ”

She smiles at the pleasant memory and sighs.

It is in places like this that she truly feels tranquil. Her legs are swung over the edge, dipped into cool water. She is not scared of hagfish, they don’t come quite so close to such a lively shore. Kelp tickles her feet and there is just a bit of slime from the fish produce on the surface.

She looks at the picture in her hands again, watching the sepia outlines of Addermire. She is glad she took it that day, as the dusky emerald waves hit the rocky foot of the Institute. She remembers it rained and she had a cough for a few days.

She is glad she took it because for a week or so Addermire wouldn’t be quite so calm.

After the journalists got wind of what transpired within its walls, the experiments and the strange happenings, the bred bloodflies and mangled corpses that can no longer be identified, a whole variety of exposures came out in the papers. At the center of them all - Hypatia Alexandria - as a victim of strange dealings that kept her shut in the Institute. Criticism of the Duke’s orders and a link to the Empress Delilah’s cruel rule. 

Even though the building stood there as magnificently as it always has, it was so far from tranquil.

She carefully replaces the picture back in its folder and lightly swings her feet in the water. A tiny school of some fish comes closer and quickly swirls away from the disturbance, and she smiles. There, coming into the harbour, is another whale vessel. There are many of them these days but getting fewer by weeks. She thinks she would like to take a picture of one before they are all forbidden, abandoned and out of commission.

Tomorrow she will grab the equipment and make her way down to the abandoned harbour, where only remnants of ships are. And there, where the ship corpses are, it will be tranquil, too.


	2. Day 3. Roasted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sad-sad piece about that couple that you can see in Dunwall sewers in the very first mission, cradling each other on an old mattress. That plague just was so sad...
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

“Come on. It’s not that bad,” he says, pushing a skewer with a rat on it towards her. She looks at the rat, roasted to the crisp, and swallows. Her throat burns like she swallowed a handful of needles, stinging. And the sight of food makes her both sick and starving. It’s been a week since she last ate a proper meal, and one has to survive.

The weepers’ know when the sickness is coming to get them.

He pushes the skewer in her hands again, and she accepts, taking a bite as he settles beside her on an old mattress. It won’t be long until both are consumed by the plague. His eyes are already horribly moist and she caught him throwing up on the other side of the sewer. She woke up with terrible pains in her stomach and throat.

It could have been so much easier to end it here, but in the end it is not so easy at all.

And so they eat the rats off skewers, well roasted on warm fire, drinking old liquor from bottles stuffed in the shelves here. Neither guards nor citizens come down here but it seems as though life finds a way here anyway.

But not now. Not when the plague is raging at its fullest, not when poor people are scared away by the Lord Regent and his Grand Guard. It’s a place safe enough to be in, and the two of them found a place to spend their last days together.

She smiles, putting an empty skewer away and pulling up legs closer, moving to the fire. She remembers how it all began, the games in the yard and her Mother calling them both over to dinner. They would eat roast prey instead of rats and would talk about going to see the whales next day. She remembers the first kiss in the secrecy of a small garden and the first night in an old attic of his father’s apartment.

She remembers his eyes were brown before they turned something horrible in the pain of the plague.

It all came so suddenly. The sunshine of their life put out like a burning match, and soon they coughed and they bled and the Lord Regent thought their poverty was a reason enough to cast them out in the streets. Their apartment was sealed as touched by plague and by now it has certainly been scavenged, every single thing they’ve collected.

He coughs, and she knows it is the plague again and not the bitter fire of the liquor. She holds out her hand and he takes it, pulling her closer. They kiss, they always kiss at night, and then hold each other, tangled. She strokes his back - he is not long to be himself. Neither is she.

They cradle each other in cold arms, blood streaking from the corners of their mouths and their chests erupting with coughter. Tomorrow they will be both dead.

But not just yet.


	3. Day 4. Spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic I decided to refer to the witches within the Dunwall Tower in DH2, which were many and surely had many unusual stories. This is my take on some of them!
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

She never believed in magic until she watched a young woman, holed up inside a tiny brick opening in the wall, perform something over a boiling pan. Her sweet voice sang for what brewed in there and soon after the steam itself turned purple. It sparkled and gleamed, turned deepest black and ceased to be entirely.

The woman never saw her, but she always remembered her. Remembered how simple herbs were turned into something magical. She was spelled by the vision of it, keeping that memory close as she grew up.

Could she ever imagine herself a witch who would be crooning over a cauldron of her own, performing magic and brewing a potion for her sister’s health. The coven never leaves those in need, and she would never leave her friend in pain either.

The witches sit in a small room in Dunwall’s Tower, overrun by them, taken by the power of nature and that of the Void. Of Delilah.

One of the witches lies sick on a bed, and the other, who sings sweet songs of magic, bespells a potion.

“Soon you shall be healthy and strong, my sister, and we will watch the moon on the sky together again, and fright away the Overseers who think they can destroy us,” she says, her body turning pale, roses grown into her skin, too. She always loves it when magic performs tricks on her body and it often makes her pause, enthralled.

The witch coughs and smiles.

“Your knowledge and skill is powerful, I believe you, sister.”

They smile, and she continues working on the potion. There is little left to do, only add a few chopped roots she gathered in the garden and something Delilah gifted her - and the potion shall be ready to return one of the witches back to healthy state.

She throws in the ingredients that remain and then leans over the hot brew. She reads the spell, a plea to the Void, a song to the god of it, a promise to Delilah. The potion’s turns deepest purple, then the darkest black. And then ceases to be.

“It is always mesmerizing to watch you work,” the witch whispers, and she smiles, her pale cheeks blushing sweet pink. She stirs the potion as it turns more liquidy in the heat of fire, as it smells of herbs collected in a midnight rain. She stirs it more and pours in a small cup that she offers her sister. The witch smells it, tastes it, drinks it, steam so hot that it makes her hair fluff and curl.

“Soon,” she says, and the witch smiles. “I can feel my strength returning. Thank you, my sister. Where have you learnt that spell?”

“Someone told me,” she says, remembering the terrified eyes of the young witch she watched in the old brick wall’s opening. At the point of a knife she told her everything, taught her everything. Long before Delilah ruled, she learnt the witch’s oftentime cold blooded ways.


	4. Day 5. Chicken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for late posting, last night had me out in the cinema watching Venom :D Have a fun prompt for a sunny Karnaca day with a certain Empress on the premises.
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

It’s a sunny day in Karnaca. The winds have gone quiet, the air is warm and smells of the tree blossoms and ripe fruit, a little on the disgustingly sweet side as they start to rot. Children fill the streets in the last days before returning to academies, private schooling. The guard is watching them with a relaxed expression, his hand resting on the weapon. There have been plenty of rumours about the Crown Killer and then someone else lurking the streets. He is best to stay ready and protect anyone who might be in danger.

_ Swish _ .

Something dark passes by, just in the corner of his eye, and he looks around to see a bird taking off into the sky. Just a bird, the crows are plenty here this time of year.

_ Swish _ .

He turns around wildly, clenching hand on the pistol, eyes narrowed, but sees nothing. No birds, no shadows.

“Hey!”

He shouts, watching a shadow move in a strange way, as if detached from the shadow proper, swirling, moving, across the floor, towards him--

The guard screams and runs across the street, yet the shadow follows, and he runs on and on, feeling it catch up, his nape nearly tickled by its breath. He runs into the guardpost building, flailing his arms as the shadow creeps beside him up the stairs. Other guards poke their heads out, unsheath their weapons as their mate is running past.

The shadow finally catches up with him upstairs in a small office. The guard seeks away out, but there is nowhere to turn, and the lively shadow somehow closes the lock.

Its long fingers wrap around the guard, and he freezes speechless, only to hear a pleasant voice in his ear.

“By the Outsider’s eyes, must you be so noisy?” the shadow asks, pressing a dark claw to his chest. The guard whimpers, shutting his eyes tight. This is how he dies, certainly, and oh, he should have listened to Mother and gone to the Overseers instead, to serve the Strictures and the people.

The shadow evaporates and turns into a rather human being, dressed in a long coat, face half-concealed behind a well-made scarf.

“Go outside and tell the guards that you are a chicken who thought something was chasing you and didn’t think of stopping to fight it. You won’t be even lying,” the woman says, her eyes gleaming with humour. The guard turns deep red and stutters, but she shakes her head and shushes.

Next thing he knows, the woman’s face bursts into a horrible grinning shadow and slips out of the window, while he is faced with a whole crowd of guards, standing in the doorway.

He tells them what the shadow wanted, blushing to the roots of his hair as the other guardsmen roll eyes and leave the room for their posts. But how in the Void’s name does he explain that the shadow chasing him was no other than Empress Emily, First of her Name?


	5. Day 6. Drooling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three words: it involves a dog. Well, four words, technically?
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

The Overseer stirs a pan of something on the stove, sighing over it and checking a small alarm just above the stove on a small shelf. It ticks five minutes till 6 in the morning, and he doesn’t have too much time left.

He throws in some meat into the pan and lowers the heat. Four minutes left and he is not done, he simply won’t be finished by the time the alarm goes off. So he stirs more and berates himself for waking up too late.

It hasn’t happened for a while, but he remembers the last time clearly. And that one set of his uniform trousers remembers too.

Three minutes, the meat is only just cooking and will take way too long to be properly ready. Inside his mind he almost wishes he had some control over the Void’s power, but banishes the thought quickly. His head might be the only safe and private space in the entire Overseers’ office, but sometimes he thinks others are able to read thoughts just from looking in one’s eyes.

Two minutes. This is when more water goes in, and he pours it from a previously heated up kettle. The pan grows hotter and the brew begins to boil a little. It is yet another problem, because he will have to cool it down and there is simply not much time left.

One minute. Oh how he wishes for that power of the Void, to be able to stop time, to be able to have just a few more minutes.

The alarm goes off, loud and clear and ringing and he shuts it off with a tap on top. Sure enough, seconds later there are scratching sounds as his best friend, a strong breed of a wolfhound, rushes into the kitchen, sits by his legs and wags its tail wildly, looking up.

“Hello there, boy,” he says sweetly, petting the dog on the head, rubbing under its chin. The hound barks in greeting and tilts its head. The tail keeps going.

“It’s not ready yet, friend, you will have to wait,” the Overseer says apologetically, stirring the pan again. He really wanted to make this stew for his friend on time, but he managed to oversleep after last night’s duty. And it was not an easy night at all.

But what are excuses to a dog, happily wagging its tail away?

The wolfhound barks again, as if accepting the apology, and then sits closer to the Overseer’s legs, eyes pitiful. He looks down and laughs - another pair of trousers ruined.

“Look here, boy, if you drool so much on my clothing, you will have me guard the Office naked,” he says, petting the dog again, who barks in agreement. Of course.

By the time the stew is finally ready, cooled down and served the Overseer has changed clothing and rejoined his happy friend in the kitchen. The wolfhound barks, shaking its head and spilling drool and bits of food everywhere.

Of course.


	6. Day 7. Exhausted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the man who discovered the secret of the Outsider's name? So, him.
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

How much time has he spent over the notes last night? He can barely remember. The thrill of chasing one of the most dangerous mysteries in the entire world has him high on adrenaline, sleepless, excited. He has long lost count of minutes, but it is true what they say - here in the Void time has no meaning. And he merged with the Void months ago, embraced by its endless blanket.

At least, here, in the Shindaerey Peak he can still discern night from day with the sunlight that pours through the mine cracks.

His mind is busy, thoughts latching one onto another in loops and strings and chaos that ensues within his imagination. Vivid images of the old, no, ancient language that they’ve uncovered in the library keeps him occupied. He could never even imagine how to read it, but the answer is clear - the black circles, lines, shapes are meanings, and what they have come to know as the Outsider’s mark is in truth his name.

How fantastic a revelation it is - and he cannot share the discovery with a single soul.

But he worries little about it. He has always been a man of seclusion, of little friends, married to the scientific research he has been doing all his life. Living with the Cult of the Outsider is just another way of seperating himself from others.

Not only that - he has to keep quiet, he has to protect the secret and himself. And by the end of this month he realises that secrecy and endless studying begins to wear him out. His eyes feel heavy, as if full of silver dust. His hands shake - he forgets to eat. And at nights he cannot sleep, his eyes focused on the markings on the wall, on the scattered pages on the floor where he wrote out the possible meanings.

Tomorrow he will hide the papers better, for no one must ever find this.

And this evening he relaxes, his legs swung off the rocky edge in the Void, wind playing with his graying hair. His leg hurts a little as marble begins taking claim of his limbs. It’s a natural process here, eagerly expected by every member, but he would like to continue his research and preserve it before he fully turns into the servant of the Envisioned. At least, he hopes, when the stone takes him, he will not have to worry about the pain in his body, about old age, about anything at all but protecting the entrance to the Outsider’s prison.

Unlike many of the other cultists, he pities the god. He won’t deny he would love to enter his Hold, discover its secrets, be blessed by the Outsider. But he pities him still. The Outsider, too, must be tired, he thinks.

He looks down at his notes. Almost done. He signs it off, “Malchiodi, 25th, Month of Rain”.

The Cultists tolerate no betrayal. It’s the last thing he writes befores they cast him in stone.


	7. Day 8. Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drawing an idea from that one tidbit of information about the Overseer suspecting a singer of being the Outsider's follower as she lost her voice when they turned on their music box from hell.
> 
> [Come chat with me on tumblr :)](http://a-driftamongopenstars.tumblr.com/)

She sits in front of her large mirror, taking last few minutes to admire the reflection. Her face, skin dark and her lips glossy, is young and soft. Her hair is put up in a most fashionable manner and almost outrageously decorated with drapes of pearls, light reflecting off them in a peculiar way.

Another layer of gloss - she smacks her lips softly and then watches herself sing. It’s a small exercise, meant to warm her voice up, catching proper tune as she sings. Her voice, sweet and gentle and captivating, takes ahold of the small room she is preparing in. It is a vast estate, and she is here to sing for a party. She knows they should all be grateful they are allowed to hear her.

Softly she touches an ornamental decoration of her tailcoat jacket, tight and firm. The ornaments are made of whalebone and intricately carved. To the majority it is merely a decoration, a piece of jewelry. But she knows it is more than that. It’s a gift to her god, it’s her connection to him. It’s a gratitude for the powers he has gifted her.

She looks in the mirror and for a moment she sees not a well-dressed woman, but a teenage girl who runs in the streets. She sees in a flash her mouth open in a scream as the mark was seared in his skin by the god, and how from that very mouth the sweetest song emerges, putting every guard in the vicinity to sleep.

Tonight, however, she intends to charm.

The hall, where a small stage is set up with an instrument, is curtained with a canopy of heavy fabrics. She can hear chatter outside, the soft whispers and loud hearty laugh. It is a good crowd and one that pays well to listen to her.

Suddenly, everyone falls quiet - it has to be a cue. The light fades away, the pianist hurries to the piano. There is something in his eyes, almost like fear, and of course, he has to fear to be late for a performance. His hands tremble as he raises them above the piano.

The canopy curtain slides aside, audience claps, and she begins singing. Sweet notes to a hushed crowd of listeners, a song about the distant Pandyssia, mysterious and beautiful.

And then she sees in the corner of her eye, passing behind the windows through a narrow street, their masks polished. The Overseers.

She takes in air to take a higher note, turning her gaze away, when suddenly her voice…

“It is gone!” the listeners whisper, as she puts her hand on her neck warmly and then touches the whalebone carved decorations. She breathes again, gestures at the pianist and takes the note.

As the song continues, she gazes out of the window, watching the Overseers walk away. She sees now that one carries a music box, and her heart makes a nauseating jolt.

It is a dangerous time to worship the Outsider.


End file.
